


Things You Said

by Cute Negativity Cloud (Ofelia)



Category: Half Bad, Half Life Trilogy
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, One Shot Collection, Tumblr Prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 05:05:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3883384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ofelia/pseuds/Cute%20Negativity%20Cloud
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the tumblr prompt: 23 possible situations that begin with "Things you said...". Canon compliant and post-Half Wild, so beware of spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  1. things you said at 1 am

  2. things you said through your teeth

  3. things you said too quietly

  4. things you said over the phone

  5. things you didn’t say at all

  6. things you said under the stars and in the grass

  7. things you said while we were driving

  8. things you said when you were crying

  9. **things you said when i was crying**

  10. things you said that made me feel like shit

  11. things you said when you were drunk

  12. things you said when you thought i was asleep

  13. things you said at the kitchen table

  14. things you said after you kissed me

  15. things you said with too many miles between us

  16. things you said with no space between us

  17. things you said that i wish you hadnt

  18. things you said when you were scared

  19. things you said when we were the happiest we ever were

  20. things you said that i wasn’t meant to hear

  21. things you said when we were on top of the world

  22. things you said after it was over

  23. things you said [make your own]




 

9: things you said when I was crying

_You're so caught up in your own dramas that you don't see anything around you._

When it was decided we were going to fly to the States, looking for the other half of the talisman, I expected to feel sad, or angry, betrayed even – after all, hadn't I left my sorrow, my mistakes, my father behind? Why did I have to go back to them? But of course, nothing of that ever left me. I can never outrun my regrets.

What I felt instead was hollowness, and I welcomed it. We weren't going back for me, after all. We weren't even going to Florida, actually. Nathan isn't the only one who knows about my father – Van and Nesbitt know for sure, courtesy of that merry time we had together in Switzerland – but he's the only one who I expected to care. He doesn't. Or at least, he hasn't said anything about it.

He doesn't say anything about anything these days.

Not after what he did to Marcus.

I know I'm being too hard on him, that I'm being unfair. I know he cares about me, and I know how difficult it is for him right now, with everyone pushing him to use Marcus' Gifts, with the Alliance scattered and defeated, with the expectations of Van and Celia, with Annalise---

I know the only thing he wants is to hide in the darkest corner of a forest and never come out. I know. I remember how he looked when he caught up with us, blood – his own father's blood –smeared on his chest, his face, his _mouth_ , how shocked he was, how he couldn't hear me calling, how he was staring at me without really seeing me.

I know why he has stopped talking almost completely, why his eyes look so terrifyingly dead.

I am terrified, at least. Arran is, too...

_You're so caught up in your own dramas that you don't see anything around you._

I wouldn't dare to say something like that now. I hope he doesn't remember. But a part of me, a selfish, cruel part of me, still thinks it.

I feel hollow at the thought of going back to my regrets, Nathan. Can you see that? I feel terrified at the thought that this was the last straw for you, Nathan. Do you have it in you to care anymore?

I cling to the hollowness and don't let go.

That's why it comes as a surprise when it leaves, and everything else comes crushing down on me. It's stupid, how it happens, really. We are just checking the perimeter around the safe house, making sure no one is around. It's sunset. The dying light hits a display window as we passed it, and something inside glints in one of the last rays, catching my attention. I turn, Nathan stopping right after, watching me. Watching the display, then watching me again when I don't move. I have to force myself to look away. I don't want to look at him – what if he sees me, what if he decides that right now is a good moment to come back and look at me? - at the same time I desperately want him to look at me – notice me, come back, please Nathan, _please_ – and I feel like I'm crumbling, scattering pieces of myself on the pavement. Where did the hollowness go?

I take a heavy, shaky breath, and turn away. Nathan watches me. He looks worried, and guilty. I start walking again, getting us both to the safe house.

Leaving the jewels-encrusted, princess-pink collection of notebooks behind.

_You're so caught up in your own dramas that you don't see anything around you._

Night falls. We're supposed to stay inside; there's enough nightsmoke for everyone, and we can't be sure Hunters haven't already caught up with us.

I'm outside, huddled in the corner of a minuscule balcony, choking down the sobs and wanting to die, wanting to kill Caitlin over and over again, wanting my darling, darling Michèle back, my little sister who acted as if she didn't like that girly pink notebook but I knew she wanted it and so I bought it for her, the notebook that became her diary and now is the only thing left of her in this world.

Not even a grave.

My back is to the door, but I hear it when someone approaches. I try to still myself, not wanting to be heard, but I fail miserably, and the only thing I manage to do is hiding my crumpling face in my hands. The lightest of steps approach me, and I know it must be Nathan, and I feel like crying even harder – because I'm ashamed, because I want him to leave, because I don't want him to leave, because I don't want him to see me like this, so pathetic, so weak, suffocating with the need to be held and consoled when he's having it worse, so much worse...

I feel his hands on my back, so light I barely feel them. He pauses, maybe waiting for me to say something, but I'm too focused on not letting a sound out. He moves one hand to my hair then, carding his fingers through it, and I'm so sorry, so sorry for what I said that time, so sorry for how things have turned out, so sorry for myself and for Michèle and for everything...

I don't even notice when I turn to him and let myself fall in his embrace; it's not a conscious thing. It's the moon calling the sea, the stars turning in the sky. Inevitable. A law of physics, of how the universe moves.

I clutch him, desperately, hiding in the crook of his neck, shaking in his arms. I wonder if he really means it, when he says I'm important, that I'm special, that he loves me, because although I shouldn't dismiss my father like this, the truth is I feel like I don't have anyone else in the world. Nathan is the only one I care about and he's the only one who cares. Do you still? Do you still care?

“I'll always care about you, Gabriel.”

I start at that. Did I say that out loud?

“Sorry,” I rasp, trying to control the sobs still racking my chest.

“For what?” he asks, his voice a little raspy too, from lack of use probably. I haven't heard him talking in days. I don't know what to answer without sounding needy though, so I just shake my head against his chest. The stab of Michèle's death still cuts my breath, but being held like this by Nathan is so good, I feel like I might even move on, one day. His fingers sing the promise of never letting go, of coming back to me, and I can't help it, like I can't help loving him with everything I am. I hope. I hope he's back for me. I hope...

He puts his lips to my temple, so gentle I feel like crying again.

He says, “I'm sorry for leaving you. I won't do it again.”


	2. Chapter 2

  1. **things you said at 1 am**

  2. things you said through your teeth

  3. things you said too quietly

  4. things you said over the phone

  5. things you didn’t say at all

  6. things you said under the stars and in the grass

  7. things you said while we were driving

  8. things you said when you were crying

  9. ~~things you said when i was crying~~

  10. things you said that made me feel like shit

  11. things you said when you were drunk

  12. things you said when you thought i was asleep

  13. things you said at the kitchen table

  14. things you said after you kissed me

  15. things you said with too many miles between us

  16. things you said with no space between us

  17. things you said that i wish you hadnt

  18. things you said when you were scared

  19. things you said when we were the happiest we ever were

  20. things you said that i wasn’t meant to hear

  21. things you said when we were on top of the world

  22. things you said after it was over

  23. things you said [make your own]




  
  


1.Things you said at 1am

Some nights, sleeping under the moon and the stars, you almost feel free. There is always a nice little corner, hidden from everything, you can find to rest. Sometimes it's a secluded balcony. Sometimes it's the thick cushion of leaves under a tree.

Some other nights you feel like you've never left the cage at all. The cage always returns, because it's inside you. The cage is made of the fear of the Hunters always, always chasing, relentless, of the tiredness of always running, and of terror. The terror of not being who you used to be. The terror of not knowing who you have become.

It had little to do with the Hunters, if not for the simple fact that now they're terrified of you, too. You guess it's convenient, how they are much more cautious now, even as they still chase you.

Finding the torn, broken and burnt bodies of an entire squad of your companions will do that to you.

Come to think of it, that's exactly what happened to you, too. Only it was dozens of bodies. Children. Women. Men. Shot in the back, made to believe they could surrender and then mercilessly killed.

The cage now is made of anguish, too.

What's the point of being able to kill twenty of them if you can't ever protect anyone? What's the point of having _eaten_ \---

_Don't think about it!_ you yell in your head as loud as you can. Better to think of all the people you have failed to save, better to think of their broken bodies and their blood staining the grass of the woods than to think of  _that_ \---

_Don't think about it_

_Don't think about it_

A thousand times better to think how the Alliance failed them all, how those few who survived now think Annalise was a spy all along, that it was all her fault all those people died---

_Don't think about it_

_Don't think about it_

_Don't think about it_

But thinking of Annalise is dangerous, because hating her and dreaming to stab her is too close to what you should not think about but it's unavoidable, you hate her, you _hate her_ for what she has done, for what you were forced to---

_DON'T THINK ABOUT IT_

then you feel something warm on your lips. You bring your fingers to them. They're wet. When you look at your fingers again, there's something dark on the tips. You bolt upright, throwing the covers away. You're only distantly aware of Gabriel stirring besides you, because suddenly you feel

_something_

_(nononono it's not it can't be it can't be it must be a nightmare wake up wake up wake THE FUCK UP)_

overflowing from your mouth, and when you open it and it pours out on your chin and neck and shirt the coppery tang is unmistakable because you know it so well

you're a murderer

a very special kind of murderer

with blood on your hands and in your mouth

the very special kind of murderer who kill their own father

It's not a dream. You're awake. You're awake and your mouth is filled with the blood of Marcus.

You run to the bathroom, not caring that it's a full moon outside, not caring about anything but washing the blood away. You feel nauseous as soon as you step inside but you don't care, _you don't care_ , you only care about the water running and washing it all away. The voices start to bang on the walls and scream in your head almost instantly and still you don't care.

“Nathan?”

Gabriel's voice is little more than a whisper. He sounds distant, like he didn't enter the house and he's waiting at the doorstep of the balcony. That's good. You don't want him to get sick for you. Then you hear a light knock on the bathroom door.

Of fucking course.

“Nathan, what's wrong?”

“Go outside you fucking idiot,” you say, but your voice betrays you and trembles and shakes just as much as your body.

The water doesn't run clear. It keeps running what looks like black but you know better. It runs red. You try not to swallow, you try not to taste it, but the blood is there still, in your mouth, it's not going away, and even though you try your best some of it goes into your throat and you choke and gag with the instinct of spitting it all out.

“Nathan, I'm coming in,” Gabriel says, and he sounds genuinely worried now. He finds you hunched over the sink, the hand covering your mouth covered in blood. By now you're so terrified you can only shake and heave and cry.

Gabriel runs over, really worried now, prying your hand away to try and see where you have cut yourself. There is no cut, but he doesn't know that.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, turning on the mirror's light to look into your mouth. You catch a glimpse of yourself when he turns your head to a better angle. Your eyes look wild and frantic. There is less blood on your clothes that you thought.

“It's Marcus' it's Marcus' it's Marcus'” you say, sounding crazy even to yourself.

Gabriel tries to sooth you, saying “Ssh, it's not, it's not Nathan,” but he looks more and more puzzled, and alarmed. There is no cut, he can see that now. You bow to the water again, try to wash it away, but it still doesn't work and you can see you're terrifying Gabriel too. He's trying to make it better by touching your back but it's not... ok it is making it better a little but it's not stopping the blood and you can't seem to stop crying. Gabriel wrenches a towel from the rack and closes the tap.

“Staying inside isn't going to help,” he says, handing you the towel. “Let's get you outside.”

You don't see how a _fucking towel_ is going to help and you have a half idea of telling him, but then you see how concerned he looks and then you notice he's trembling and sweating. Being inside on a full moon night is fucking stupid, you remember. You put the towel on your mouth and let yourself be guided out, Gabriel's arm draped protectively around you. You stop shaking the second you step outside, but then you feel so drained you sag to the mattress on the ground like you have no bones left in your body. Gabriel goes back inside, then returns with a bowl and a bottle of water. You look up at him, and the crave for his embrace, for his undeserved love is blinding and painful.

You don't deserve his love. You don't deserve a fucking thing.

Gabriel almost drops bottle and bowl in his rush to sit down beside you and hug you. He rocks gently back and forth as you stuff your mouth with the towel and hope the blood will stop. It's uncomfortable but there's nothing else you could---

Gabriel wipes your tears away, no matter how steadily they still come out.

You take a deep breath.

\---but there's nothing else I can do. As I let myself be embraced I calm down enough to realize how fucked up what's happening is. I take the towel out enough to ask, “I'm not hallucinating the blood, am I?”

Gabriel brushes my sweat-matted hair out of my forehead. “No, you're not. I see it.”

“Fucking great,” I mumble, but the coppery taste in my mouth isn't as strong as before.

“How did it happen?”

“I don't know,” I say, feeling more tired than after a month running away from Hunters. “I was thinking and trying to sleep and then I had Mar---” I shiver violently. “---I had blood in my mouth.”

“It's ok. It's stopping,” he says. I don't really believe it but I want to believe _him_ , if that makes any sense, so I just let him hug me.

Then he whispers, “Don't blame yourself. You did what he asked for. He died on his own terms, giving you all his Gifts, all his power. He was proud of you.”

I feel my face crumple so I just hide it in his shoulder. I can't hide the silent sobs but he's seen me being a crybaby before so what's one more time?

The blood does stop. I wash my mouth with the bottled water and spit it out in the bowl. Then we throw the bloody water down the balcony and hide the towel. I'm amazed Nesbitt hasn't popped up with all the racket I've made but I'm thankful. Little blessings and all that. If he made a joke out of this I might very well kill him.

Gabriel helps me down on the mattress, laying beside me and draping the blanket over us. He looks so worried I know he'll try to stay awake and watch over me all night. I don't want him to but he's as hard-headed as me and loyal to the core, so there's no stopping him. I take his right hand in my left, fitting them palm to palm.

The little scars left from the stakes, from the rite we overcame together, fit perfectly.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: M rated for a brief mention of sexual situations; pretentious use of Donna Tartt's "The Secret History", page 40 to 41; jabs at "Troy" (I hate that fucking movie).

  1. ~~things you said at 1 am~~

  2. things you said through your teeth

  3. things you said too quietly

  4. things you said over the phone

  5. things you didn’t say at all

  6. things you said under the stars and in the grass

  7. things you said while we were driving

  8. things you said when you were crying

  9. ~~things you said when i was crying~~

  10. things you said that made me feel like shit

  11. things you said when you were drunk

  12. **things you said when you thought i was asleep**

  13. things you said at the kitchen table

  14. things you said after you kissed me

  15. things you said with too many miles between us

  16. things you said with no space between us

  17. things you said that i wish you hadnt

  18. things you said when you were scared

  19. things you said when we were the happiest we ever were

  20. things you said that i wasn’t meant to hear

  21. things you said when we were on top of the world

  22. things you said after it was over

  23. things you said [make your own]




  
12: things you said when you thought I was asleep

When the war ends, the most pressing question in the Alliance is: what will the Witch With A Hundred Gifts do?

My answer is: I'll build myself a cabin in the woods and hopefully not see any of you for at least a few decades. I don't know yet about the decades part – it's only been a month – but the cabin in the woods part is coming along nicely.

Gabriel's answer is: what kind of stupid nickname is that? You only have, like, ten Gifts. He's insufferable like that.

We use a detailed atlas of Europe to decide where we're going to build the cabin. I'd like to do it in Wales but it's not secluded enough. The idea of living there is hard to let go though. It would be close to my old house, and to Arran. But I know England isn't safe, not even now. The Alliance has won but that doesn't mean there won't be witches who really won't like the new Council, and guess who they're more likely to try to kill? It would be a great political point. Or they could do it out of revenge. I've killed so many.

So, continental Europe it is. We decide the Swiss Alps are our best bet: lots of remote valleys, few Fains around. Besides, Gabriel speaks French, and his German isn't bad either. At least one of us should be able to communicate, he says. I suspect he just wants to feel important, knowing I'll need him to interact with the Fains. Or maybe he just wants to make sure I don't isolate myself completely by choosing a Country I don't speak the language of. We choose a thinly populated, French-speaking canton and start from there. I even asked Ellen to do some research on the internet to see which valley might do. I have a stack of annotated maps she printed with me when we go.

We find a place that is absolutely perfect – the only catch being it's not Wales. But really, it's close enough. It's a remote area around a small lake, woods all around and the Mont Rose massif in sight. Its glaciers are a blinding white even from a distance. The closest village is almost two hours away by foot – which isn't a problem for us, thanks to the cuts. The first thing we do is set up the trespass spell Van gave us. Then we set up the spells to keep Fains away – the valley below the lake's effluent has exactly twelve houses in it, most of them vacation homes, but you're never safe enough. After that, I set up the cuts: one for the closest village, one for my old house in England, one for Mercury's bunker.

Then we start building. We're in no rush though, so we take our time. The most tiring part is bringing the materials to the place. The cuts help, but we still have to carry everything ourselves. Neither of us has ever done something like this, so there's a lot of trial and error before we get the hang of it. Whenever something doesn't convince us, we just tear it down and do it again. Ideally, we're going to stay here for a long time, so I want it to be perfect.

Ideally, we're going to stay here _together_ for a long time, so there's actually a lot of planning and sketching and bitching to get it right. I wanted to do something simple, two small rooms at best, but Gabriel wouldn't have any of it. What he wanted, though, was way too complicated to build on our own. We spent three days coming up with a project satisfactory enough for both. Now we have three rooms and a veranda that will function as bedroom when we don't feel like using the nightsmoke. I convinced Gabriel to give up the idea of a second floor. He convinced me that the idea of big floor-to-ceiling windows is a good one. I felt like that wouldn't be very private but he's right, there is literally no one around so who cares. We won't have any electricity so the increased lighting is a plus. We find the right cluster of trees – we'll use the trunks as pillars – and start our project.

It's surprisingly solitary work. We're together all the time but we talk very little, especially after we get the hang of it and we get more efficient.

During the night, though, it's a different story. At first, when we still don't have a bedroom, we sleep in a tent. We're trying to take it slow – no reason to kill ourselves working too fast – but I'm used to push my limits and Gabriel doesn't know how to spare himself, so we always end up exhausted. We end up cuddling in the tent as soon as night falls. I still have trouble sleeping for more than a few hours without jolting awake with a nightmare, or the panic of being hunted, or the ghost sensation of a knife killing, killing, killing. That's why I don't like the idea of the shared tent much – I don't want to keep Gabriel awake. But I know there's just no force in the universe that could convince him to leave me to my own devices. Besides, I like to know he'll be there when I wake up terrified and disoriented. It's nice.

Gabriel has come up with this idea that we need to replace the horrible stories in my head with other, more positive stories. So every night he reads me a book from the stack he bought. He went all the way to England through the cut to buy them, since he couldn't find much in English here. He got it in his head that I have “classical tastes” – whatever the fuck that means – and that reading me modern novels isn't a good idea. He said something about character study not being something I'd enjoy. When I asked him to speak English he laughed.

“It means you don't enjoy listening to characters contemplating their own navels,” he said.

I guess that's probably true. It sounds boring, but I don't really know, do I?

So that's why I end up dozing on Gabriel's chest as he reads me the Iliad. He told me he's ashamed he has never read it before. I don't know what the hell he's ashamed of, he has read the equivalent of an entire library, probably. When I told him that he kissed me and said I'm adorable but I'm not a reliable judge in that department. I swore at him – mostly for the adorable part.

He doesn't actually read it all to me – there's an entire part about all the stupid ships the stupid Greeks have that he jumps, for example – but what I listen to, I kind of like. It's a very different book than what Celia used to read me. There is much more action, people actually doing things and not thinking about themselves or the universe – which is exactly what Gabriel meant, I guess. The heroes all look pretty simple to me, and I don't know how I feel about that. I'm used to think of people fighting wars as having complicated, contrasting motives.

I totally understand what Gabriel is doing when we get to Patroclus' death. I'm stunned when Hector kills him and Gabriel is delighted at what he calls “my first reading-induced anguish”. I wouldn't use such a strong word, but still. I expected Achilles to sweep in and defeat him. Isn't that what happens in books, usually? I ask Gabriel.

“Not in Greek poems, no,” he says. “They had a taste for the tragic.”

It's obvious he decided to read me this part because he relates to Patroclus' devotion towards Achilles. Leave it to Gabriel to profess his love through the passionate reading of a book. I'm sure he was so pleased with himself when I started to get into the story (and I really liked Patroclus).

But I see some similarities between him and Achilles too. Gabriel can be kind of a deathseeker too, and I remember well when he told me he wanted to find my corpse and starve himself as he held it. Achilles didn't want to bury Patroclus either.

Besides, it's obvious they were lovers.

When I say that, Gabriel laughs. “Actually you'd be surprised at how many deny that,” he tells me. I call bullshit. What do they say they were, just exceptionally close cousins or something? _Come on._

I must admit I'm pissed when the book ends and Troy is still under siege. Gabriel has that smug look on his face that says he planned it. I try to force him to tell me everything that happens in book two.

“But, Nathan, there is no book two,” he says, as false as a two pounds bill.

I spend the next hour or so trying to coax it out of him, but he's resilient and I forget all about the Iliad halfway through anyway. No matter how tortuously slow I make love to him, I never manage to make him beg, and the way his back arches beneath me is way too distracting.

I'm back at it at breakfast the day after. We use the cut to go into town and to Gabriel's favourite coffee shop, where we both get a slice of chocolate cake offered by the owner. She has noticed us passing by pretty regularly and is always trying to get on out good side. She has tried to speak to me in decent English before but I've played dumb, so now she usually bothers Gabriel (who doesn't look bothered at all and actually chides me for being an arsehole).

 _Finally_ Gabriel decides to grace me with the tale of how Troy fell and Achilles died (I knew it, damn it). There is really no book two, so he wasn't completely lying. In between sips of his café au lait, he says, “This reminds me, I really wanted to read that novel about Greek enthusiasts by Donna Tartt.”

“I thought you said I wouldn't like novels.”

He flashes me a pleased smile. “Oh? So every time I read a book, I have to read it to you too?”

I cross my arms, embarrassed. “Of course not.”

“Mmh. Wishful thinking,” he says. I'm stupidly pleased by that.

For all that he brought an entire stack of books back from England, this particular book isn't one of them, so we have to go buy it (what's the point of buying a new one when you have so many others you haven't read yet? I remember Debs doing it too. _Readers_ ). I agree to go with him through a cut to a bookshop in Geneva with lots of international literature.

“Why did you go all the way to England before when there's this bookshop much closer?” I ask.

“I like to explore new bookshops. It's fun. This one has four floors, I heard.”

“Oh for fuck's sake, we're gonna stay there all day aren't we?”

“Not all day, probably.”

At least he has the decency to look sheepish. _Readers._

It takes him two hours to browse it all to his satisfaction. I don't want to ruin his fun so I don't bitch about it, but the combined hissing of all the computers and the customers' cellphones give me a monster headache. When we get back it's raining, so there's nothing to do but huddle in the tent, me with a warm compress on my eyes and Gabriel fussing over me. He keeps saying he didn't realize my aversion to electric things was this severe. I keep telling him it's just a headache, I've had much worse things to deal with, but he doesn't like this reasoning.

“Just read the fucking book,” I snap. “Make the headache worth something.”

The sound of the rain on the tent is soothing, a steady pattering that almost lulls me to sleep. And it's not just sound, not to me. I can feel the drops shivering the surface of the lake, the leaves and branches bowing with their weight. The still, waiting calm of the animals huddled and hidden in their dens.

Gabriel starts to read, voice low and murmuring. I drift in and out of sleep. Sometimes I miss a page, some others I think he jumps them on purpose. Maybe he thinks I'm asleep. I don't mind. This protagonist guy, Richard, sounds whiny anyway. There's a long silence in which Gabriel turns a lot of pages. I count them to pass the time. Twenty-three... twenty-four... twenty-five... there he stops, quite longer than normal. Then he whispers,

' _Death is the mother of beauty,' said Henry._

_'And what is beauty?'_

_'Terror.'_

_'Well said,' said Julian. 'Beauty is rarely soft or consolatory. Quite the contrary. Genuine beauty is always quite alarming.'_

Silence again. I breathe slowly. I wonder why he read that out loud. I can feel his presence in the damp air and grey light like a beacon of warmth, even with my eyes closed.

He reads to me again.

_'Do you remember what we were speaking of earlier, of how bloody, terrible things are sometimes the most beautiful?' he said. 'It's a very Greek idea, and a very profound one. Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it.'_

I don't startle when I feel his fingers brushing my face, from cheekbone to lips. He rests there, and I part them a little on instinct.

_'And what could be more terrifying and beautiful, to souls like the Greeks or our own, than to lose control completely? To throw off the chains of being for an instant, to shatter the accident of our mortal selves? To be absolutely free!'_

It's strange, how he says those last few words. They're more cutting, stronger. Then I understand. He's imitating my accent, my voice. I remember saying something very similar. “ _My desires are to be totally wild. Totally free._ ” I remember what came after it, and I'm hot with both shame and pleasure. Shame, for how I recoiled just after, giving him exactly what I knew he wanted so bad, only to hide in Annalise's room for hours. Pleasure, because it's always a pleasure to kiss him, no matter the reason.

_'If we are strong enough in our souls we can rip away the veil and look that naked, terrible beauty right in the face; let God consume us, devour us, unstring our bones. Then spit us out reborn.'_

He pauses as he follows the line of my bottom lip with a finger, his touch light. Then he repeats, “ _'Look that naked, terrible beauty right in the face'_ ”.

Silence again. The whisper of the rain outside. Then Gabriel murmurs, in an awed sort of voice, “You are my beautiful, devouring God, Nathan.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they make out in a changing room, basically.

  1. ~~things you said at 1 am~~

  2. things you said through your teeth

  3. things you said too quietly

  4. things you said over the phone

  5. things you didn’t say at all

  6. things you said under the stars and in the grass

  7. things you said while we were driving

  8. things you said when you were crying

  9. ~~things you said when i was crying~~

  10. things you said that made me feel like shit

  11. things you said when you were drunk

  12. ~~things you said when you thought i was asleep~~

  13. things you said at the kitchen table

  14. things you said after you kissed me

  15. things you said with too many miles between us

  16. **things you said with no space between us**

  17. things you said that i wish you hadnt

  18. things you said when you were scared

  19. things you said when we were the happiest we ever were

  20. things you said that i wasn’t meant to hear

  21. things you said when we were on top of the world

  22. things you said after it was over

  23. things you said [make your own]




 

16\. things you said with no space between us

  
When I stop in front of the shop entrance, Nathan looks at its display windows with a mixture of disdain and discomfort.

“Are you sure this is a good idea, Gabriel?” he asks. The way he unconsciously half-hides behind me is enough to melt my heart. The most powerful witch alive, everybody. Scared at the prospect of buying fancy clothes. All those bloodthirsty clerks are mighty foes, after all.

I shouldn't make fun of him for this, I know. There are lots of reasons, all of them valid, why Nathan is uncomfortable. He has troubles staying indoors, and shops – with all their electronic appliances – are the worst in that respect. He's also understandably self-conscious about showing his scars and tattoos. And I'm fairly sure the last time he was allowed to freely go anywhere, let alone in a shop, was... probably never. But that's one of the reasons I want to do this. He's had so many things taken away – mundane things, simple things, happy things – and if I can, I want to help him realize that now they can be his. Again, or for the first time.

I put my arm under his and gently guide him inside. “Yes, I'm sure. I promise you, it's going to be fun.”

Truth be told, I don't usually care that much for clothes. Just as Nathan, I've lived on the run long enough to almost forget how to care. Although, I'm almost sure Nathan didn't lose interest in dressing decently, he never even knew what that means. But we aren't on the run anymore, the war is over, and Black Witch gatherings have resumed.

We have both been invited to one in Bern.

To say Nathan is suspicious of this invitation would be an understatement. The experience with Pilot is still fresh in his mind, and he has no intention of letting a high-and-mighty Black disrespect him again. I share his sentiment but I still hope he doesn't resort to pull a knife on someone to claim the respect he deserves. Hopefully no one will be suicidal enough to invite him only to humiliate him. Then again, the Blacks I've met at the few gatherings I've attended were mostly racist assholes. Only traditionalists show up at these things. But I guess we have to know where we stand with the Black community, so we'll go. Hopefully it won't be too bad – if Nathan manages to not get angry for a few seconds. I'm not too worried though. If they do disrespect him they're in for a nasty surprise, and I, for one, will enjoy the show.

But first, clothes. Nathan can't show up in his usual torn-jeans-and-holey-t-shirt attire. Actually I don't have anything suitable myself.

I've explored a few towns in the area around our cabin to find the perfect shop. More than the clothes sold, I care about the place itself. The smaller, the better; and if it has an old, not computerized cash register, that's a plus. I ruled out the big companies' stores – not that there are many around – because I know Nathan absolutely loathes them. This shop we're seeing today is on the Italian side of the Mont Rose massif; it's small, with a certain vintage feel, and the three clerks I've seen speak good French (the great advantage of being a shapeshifter is that you can, for example, visit the same place over and over without looking like a weirdo; also, I don't have many reasons to use my Gift anymore and I'm bored).

When we enter the shop, a bell chimes softly above the door. The interior is all old leather suitcases scattered around with careful randomness and recycled paraphernalia nailed on the walls – a metal-frame bicycle, wooden wine cases, books. Nathan stares at the bicycle, dumbfounded. I chuckle.

“They just have to make it creative and memorable,” I say.

“That's memorable all right,” he responds. Then he turns to me, and it seems like he wants to say more, but he catches something behind me and his face makes this really funny grimace, like he simultaneously wants to bite someone's head off and bolt for the door. When I turn, one of the clerks is smiling politely at us. She greets us in Italian, and asks if we need help with anything. I look back at Nathan, who is ever so slightly inching towards the exit.

Really, you'd think a hardened warrior like him would be less skittish.

I politely tell her, in French, that we just want to take a look. She smiles and leaves, not before glancing at Nathan with a puzzled expression. When she's out of earshot, I sigh.

He gets defensive faster than you can say _For fooks sake Gabriel_. “What.”

I get closer and brush my hand on his neck, caressing the spot under his jaw with my thumb. He's all tense, like he's preparing for a fight, shoulders hunched, fists ready. Since my touch doesn't ease the tension away as I hoped, I try to make him laugh. “What do you want to do, punch the poor clerk and run for the mountains?”

He self-consciously looks down at his hands, and he unclenches them. “I just really don't like this, okay?”

He even blushes a little when he says this, a little smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and it takes all my restraint not to kiss him right there. _Public place, Gabriel, public place. He wouldn't appreciate that. Do you want to get punched? No you don't._

“I swear no diabolical hanger is going to attack you. Not on my watch.”

At this, he almost laughs. It's so endearing how he does it; half-turning away, looking at the ground as his grin stretches and stretches until it seems impossible he won't finally laugh. Yet it happens so rarely, still. It's kind of sad. I see the clerk watching us from the cash register with great interest. Nathan notices too and flusters – although to the untrained eye it looks more like he's glaring at her. She ducks behind some racks in a hurry. It would be funnier if only Nathan was doing it on purpose, but he's always been oblivious to the terror he instils and that hasn't changed either. Once you know him well you realize he's a big puppy, not even that deep down. Wasn't it Nesbitt who said that? It's just that Nathan has been conditioned not to trust anyone, so if you get too close, he growls.

Or threatens to maim you. Depends on how you get close.

Since the clerk is out of sight, I dare a peck on his lips. When he blinks at me he looks a little mollified.

“Please try not to kill her with your stare if she dares to do her job again, okay?” I tell him. He grumbles under his breath but follows me through the store without further complaint. I let him browse a few racks, asking him what he likes. He goes onlyfor the black and he doesn't even see anything with more than one button. I don't want to be _that_ gay man but he can't go to a gathering in jeans and a hoodie.

“How about this?” I ask, grabbing a deep blue button-down and holding it to his chest.

He looks dubious at best. “I don't know... I can't even remember the last time I wore something like this.”

“Is it the colour you don't like? You could at least try to look at something that isn't black. Maybe even try it on,” I say, teasingly. He shoves the hanger in my face. “Shut the fuck up,” he says, his smile affectionate.

I manage to convince him to at least look at something a little more formal. He's not being difficult, it seems to me he's just afraid he'll look ridiculous. He's not used to pretentious gatherings and he doesn't think he'll fit in. How perfect, then, to be dressed in black: suitably menacing and perfect to blend into the darkness and run for it.

He's willing to give a chance at trousers but he draws the line at vests (“Don't even fucking think about it I'm not fucking wearing that” is a pretty clear line, if you ask me).

I know I'm near a break through when I hand him a dark green button-down and he looks at it, _really_ look at it, silent in that focused way of his.

“You like that?” I ask, watching him.

“I like the colour,” he says, voice low. “Reminds me of the woods.”

After that I find every single deep forest green article of clothing in the store and thrust it in his arms.

“What the hell am I supposed to do with all these clothes?” Nathan asks, aghast.

“Try them on, obviously,” I say as I look critically at an assortment of ties. I doubt Nathan has ever even worn a tie. Oh wait, maybe when he was in school? Don't they have mandatory uniforms in England?

“Did you wear a tie in school?” I ask on a whim.

The look he shoots me is nothing less than murderous. “I am not wearing a tie.”

“I know. It just occurred to me, that's all.”

“Why the fuck would you care about that?”

Ah, Nathan. Almost eighteen, hardened warrior, and still so innocent. “No reason,” I say as I try to look interested in another pair of jeans and not to think how Nathan could've looked like in his high school uniform. I put the jeans back on the rack and turn to him. He's staring at me with an amused expression.

“Whatever you're thinking, let me tell you that it was an ugly, oversized hand-me-down of Arran's.”

...Or not. I clear my throat. “I don't know what you're talking about. Now, let's have you try those on, shall we?”

It's when we get to this part that the moaning really starts. Nathan doesn't understand why fastenings would ever be so complicated, or why a blazer would have zips that are only decorative, but most importantly, he doesn't understand why anyone would wear jeans so tight.

“Are you sure these are my size?” he asks from inside the changing room. I move the tend to the side and take a peek. He squeals.

“Oh come on now, it's not like I don't see you naked everyday,” I say, annoyed.

“It's not that,” he hisses, turning to me and inching deeper into the small space. “Just close that fucking curtain okay?”

His scars are reflected in the mirror inside the changing room, thick and ghastly. One way or another, if the clerk was to steal a glance through the opening of the curtain, there's no way she'd miss them. And they don't look like tattoos, not even from a distance. They look exactly what they are: painful signs of cruelty and hate. I'm so used to them I seldom notice them now. But sometimes, like this time, I do; and I boil with rage and powerlessness, and I look at Nathan – fierce, indomitable Nathan – pleading me with his eyes to close the curtain and hide them... I'm ashamed at my surge of annoyance from merely a few seconds ago.

I step inside the changing room and close the curtain carefully behind me. The space is so cramped we're basically chest to chest. We look at each other for a moment, a tense silence hanging between us. I bend a little, slowly, letting him know what I'm doing. He doesn't move, so I kiss his forehead, lingering a few seconds. “Sorry,” I whisper.

When I pull back, his eyes are closed. The frown that marred his face is gone. “S'fine,” he says, slurring the words a little. He looks so relaxed, like a sleepy kitten (I should really stop with the puppy comparisons). I kiss him again, on the lips this time. Then I put my fingers in the jeans' loops and tug. He yelps.

“They look fine to me,” I say.

“But they're tight,” he whines.

I don't even try to stop myself. “And that's exactly why they look fine.”

My reward is a slap on the arm, but there's so little space to move he can't put much force into it.

He glowers at me. “I mean they're too tight.”

“No they're not, they're just made like this.”

“Well then maybe I don't want them, do I?” He smiles, the words sugary and dangerous. That's my clue to either appease him or get kicked out, I guess.

I throw my hands in the air dramatically. “Fine, fine, have it your way.”

He jumps me then, circling my neck with his arms. I yelp in surprise and grab at his waist.

“Always,” he whispers against my lips, and a shiver surges up my spine, beckoned out of me in a trembling breath at his words.

“Uh, Nathan, your jeans are open,” I whisper, feeling the button digging in my left hipbone and the zip's teeth catching in my own jeans. He pushes our bodies even closer, pulling gently my bottom lip before licking it. Any thought I might have had about propriety promptly sails out of the window, but just then he leans back.

He looks at me and he smirks, _the fucking tease_.

I push him against the glass behind him and pry his lips open. My hands are gripping his sides. He's not the kind to just let me have my way though. He trips me and switches our positions, but there isn't space enough and he ends up kicking the stool in the corner, which clatters to the ground. We both look at it, frozen in terror. Just on cue, the clerk's voice reaches us. “ _Tout va bien là?_ ” she asks, sounding suspicious. I glower at Nathan, who sticks out his tongue at me. What am I supposed to do now, answer and let her know I'm inside the changing room, or stay silent and let her figure out I'm inside the changing room, since I'm nowhere else in sight? These are the kind of problems that arise when your boyfriend has no chill and doesn't speak French. And you don't know how to tell him no, ever. Admittedly.

I still haven't decided what to do when Nathan turns towards the curtain and says, “ _Oui, ça va._ ”

“ _Si vous avez besoin de quoi que ce soit, n'hésitez pas_ ,” the clerk says, sounding more like she wants to call the police than help.

“I have no bloody idea what you just said, lady,” Nathan scoffs. She mutters something under her breath before her steps tell us she's walking away.

I relax a fraction. “You picked up a little French I see.”

He stabs a finger into my chest. “Don't sound so surprised.”

“Well, since it's your fault it's only fitting you get us out of such an interesting situation.”

“How is this my fault?”

“You started it!”

“No _you_ started it when you fantasised about me in my high school uniform, you pervert.”

I blush a little at that. Guilty as charged. But what was I supposed to do? The fault lies with English schools and their fetishistic obsession for uniforms. We normal, well-adjusted mainlanders don't have those. The uniforms, not the fetishistic obses--- oh why do I even bother. “Are you mad?”

He smirks at me like he knows exactly what I'm thinking. “No. But you have no idea how ridiculous that thing was, I feel stupid just thinking about it.”

I snicker. “I'm sure it wasn't so bad.”

Nathan glares at me.

“Okay, okay, sorry. Stop talking about my uniform, Gabriel, message received loud and clear.”

“You'd better.” Then he tugs at his ( _still half-way open, please spare me_ ) jeans with a thoroughly unconvinced look. “I hope they're not all like this,” he says as he starts to strip. I right the stool in the corner and pick up the stack of clothes and hangers that spilled on the floor. At this point, for my own sanity, I hope that too.

It's not too hard to find a pair more loose-fitting which Nathan doesn't complain too much about. After that he tries on the deep green button-down he had seen before, and I force him into a pair of combat boots (“But Gabriel I already have a pair of boots” “Nathan are you kidding me those boots have literally seen war they're kept together by spit and prayers”). He looks fantastic. Kind of casual, which suits him just fine. The shirt's colour is perfect; not because it harmonizes with his dark hair and olive skin – although it does – but because it matches something deeper, that wild streak that surfaces in the way he moves... like a wolf prowling the deepest recess of a forest. I stand behind him as he looks himself in the mirror.

He doesn't look convinced, I can tell, but I don't think the problem is the clothes. I smooth back the hair at his temples and I say, “You're beautiful.”

“You say that only because you love me,” he says, but he isn't smiling. He looks lost.

I kiss his nape. “I do, but it's true nonetheless.”

We're so close, my chest against his back, my cheek against his neck. I think of the other times we've been like this, him looking in a mirror and me looking at him; him haunted by his own demons and me dying of love as I watch his battle. I hug him closer.

“I don't recognize myself,” he whispers.

I look up, meet his eyes in the reflection.

“Ever,” ha adds, so quiet I almost don't hear.

I don't have anything meaningful to offer. What can I even say to something like that? What does it matter that I see all the contradictions and the scars and the jagged, cutting pieces of him as a beautiful, perfectly imperfect whole? I know he'll always struggle with his self-image. There's no easy undoing of years of abuse, no matter how much I hate the Whites for hurting him like this, and no matter how much I love him.

His eyes – those black bottomless eyes – dig into me, but they aren't looking for answers. I hug him tighter as he closes his eyes and turns to me, our noses touching.

When I poke my head out of the changing room to check on the clerk, she's staring at me from the cash register. She doesn't look very happy. I guess we can consider ourselves banned from this shop forever, which is unfair – I didn't actually get to do enough to deserve banning. Nathan doesn't appreciate her scolding look and returns it with a glare of his own all throughout the transaction. She's handing me the change when she says, in French, “Changing rooms aren't make-out booths.”

I am mortified. Nathan sees my expression and asks, in a tone that definitely doesn't help, “What the fuck did she say now?”

The clerk may not speak English but 'fuck' is a universal word. She and Nathan glower at each other before I take the bag and drag him outside before bloodshed ensues.


End file.
